


Seven Minus Two

by capgal



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: (specifically Steve & Bucky's), Aftermath of character death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 08:09:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4869548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capgal/pseuds/capgal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The history books remember the tragedy of Steve Rogers' life, of his untimely plummet into the ice and his separation from his sweetheart. The history books remember the death of Bucky Barnes, the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country. What the history books forget is the Howling Commandos's struggle to cope with the loss of not one but two of their own in such rapid succession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Minus Two

Morita’s the one who has to carry the news, having had the privilege—or perhaps the misfortune—of bearing witness to Steve’s last words. Being the bearer of bad news is always hard, and even more so when he can’t believe it himself yet. He stumbles to the tent where the rest of the Commandos are waiting, a little anxious but mostly expectant. Eager questions greet him: “What’s Cap up to now?” and “Is he on his way back?” and “Did he tell you how he knocked out Schmidt?”

For a long while, the only response he can muster to their eager questions is a wide-eyed, open-mouthed silence. He watches their faces change, the expectation sliding into concern, the smiles slowly dying on their lips. When he finally speaks, the weight of the silence has gotten so heavy it takes all his effort just to push the air out of his lungs.

“He’s—he’s gone. Drove the damn plane into the ocean. Agent Carter was— she was on the radio with him, tried to talk him down but he wouldn’t listen. Said there wasn’t time. He drove the plane right into the water. I heard— I heard the crash, the radio cut out but I heard it, he— he’s _gone_.”

* * *

They don’t even get to bury him, neither Rogers nor Barnes. There isn’t time, and the army isn’t about to let their finest go to waste mourning two men, not when they’re short on expert manpower and so close to ending the war. The funeral won’t be properly arranged for weeks, anyway; they don't even have a body to bury yet. All of it’s gonna have to wait.

“Captain Rogers did not die so we could sit around moping. Captain Rogers died to give us a chance to win this war, and we are not going to waste it.”

That’s all Phillips has to say in encouragement, and the silence that greets him tastes more of grief-laden exhaustion, of tired acquiescence, than of agreement. The Colonel means well, they know, feels the loss as keenly as anyone who wasn’t a Commando could—Rogers was one of his, after all—but there’s only so much words can do to fix this monstrosity.

* * *

The missions don’t immediately go to hell the way they half-expected. It’s odd, being short two men, the absence of two familiar voices on the comms as conspicuous as it is disconcerting, but they manage. They’re good soldiers, after all, and they’re good at what they do. HYDRA bases go down, one after another after another, dropping before they even realize that Steve and Bucky are missing from their ranks.

They’re in the woods of God-knows-where when it happens. They’re a little drunk on victory, a little numb from the cold, and a little woozy from exhaustion; that’s what they'll blame it on, later. For now, the conversation around the camp wanders, as scattered as the stars above them. The rhythm is a little off, littered with pauses where there shouldn’t be any, pocked with drops of quiet where words should be forthcoming, but they don’t quite notice—until the chatter stops entirely, waiting in expectant silence for a quip they all know is coming. Half a heartbeat later, Jones calls out, “What, Barnes, no smart comment? Cold finally got your tongue?”

The pregnancy of the silence shatters, a million glittering shards that dig into their chests. The sharp breath of realization follows a second too late to cover the words already hanging in the air.

That’s the first time it happens. It’s not the last. Not by a long shot.

* * *

They’re back in London for the first time since It happened. No one says a word, but the familiar bustle and backdrop of the headquarters are throwing everyone off. They keep expecting Bucky to walk out of one of the tents, or Steve to appear in his blond-hair-blue-eyed Captain America glory. Their ears are straining, seeking out familiar Brooklyn drawls in the chatter around them; more than one head turns every time some soldier from New York walks by. It puts them on edge, keeps buffeting them between all-too-easy familiarity and the sudden, aching reminder of what they’ve lost.

It’s almost a blessing when they’re ushered straight into one of the offices for a briefing without a breath of rest; it gives them less time to let their thoughts wander to dark corners and sepia-toned memories. It’s _almost_ a blessing.

“What, we rationing chairs now?” Falsworth mutters. “Who’s gotta stand, is it Dernier and me ‘cause we’re not American?”

There are five chairs waiting unoccupied at the conference table, clustered around one corner of the map. There are five of them standing in the doorway. Five men, and two ghosts haunting their every step.

Dugan drops himself into the chair as if tugged down by the weight of absent faces. Dernier spins on his heels and walks right out of the room. Nobody goes after him. Nobody even speaks. Not for a long while.

* * *

Their next mission goes all to hell. The facility turns out to be one of the last remaining headquarters of HYDRA operations, not the abandoned weapons storage they were expecting it to be. They beat a hasty retreat, thanking Dernier’s foresight in rigging their exit path with explosives beforehand. The firefight follows them far past the boundary of the grounds, keeping them too busy ducking bullets and scrambling up a hill to speak; it’s all they can do to keep each other in sight as they weave their way into the trees. The cold silence, when it finally greets them, is a balm against their sweat-soaked skin and hammering hearts.

“What’s our next move, Captain?” Morita whispers into the comms as they slip into the shadows of the Polish countryside. Only the unblinking light of the moon answers.

* * *

The Howling Commandos were always a small team, relying tightly on each other as they carried out unorthodox missions far behind enemy lines. They don’t realize how much they’d been counting on their numbers until it’s not there anymore—but nobody mentions bringing in replacements. There is no one who could fill Steve’s or Bucky’s shoes, and the entire army knows it. It’s not just any two men they’re lacking, anyway. It’s two specific men, with their smart quips and calm orders woven neatly into the rhythm of their conversations, with one’s super-strength and the other’s whistling sniper shots knotted inextricably into the pattern of their missions.

“Look, Colonel, this isn’t that complicated,” Dugan proclaims, gesturing over the blueprints they’ve been poring over for the last two hours. “We send two men in through here, two down from the roof, and three through the main doors. Knock out whoever needs knocking out, rendezvous in the main control room, here, and blow it all up on the way out. Simple.”

“Dugan,” says Peggy quietly. “There aren’t seven of you.” Her voice is gentle despite the sorrow weighing it down, but she might as well have screamed it the way it slams into him. He doesn’t speak again, even as the rest of the room haltingly resumes their discussions and arguments.

* * *

It keeps happening, though perhaps less and less frequently. “Could really use one of your miracle shots right about now, Barnes!” Jones shouts in the middle of a heavy firefight in the outskirts of Austria.

“Where’s Captain Rogers joining us?” Dernier asks Agent Carter when she radios down their rendezvous point for the upcoming mission.

They learn not to talk about it. They learn to navigate around the several heartbeats of aching silence that follows. They learn to swallow their grief with just a sharp breath and refocus. They learn to talk over it, to keep moving on like nothing happened. They learn, but it never gets easier.

* * *

Paris is different from London; it’s almost as if they’re still celebrating their liberation nearly a year ago. The difference is refreshing, in a way, and they get more than a little drunk on the atmosphere (with perhaps some help from alcohol). They’ve got a day’s worth of leave, and Dernier for one doesn’t intend to let the night pass without indulging in the luxury of French wine and sweet-talking a dame or two. Neither does Jones. The rest of them aren’t about to let something as trivial as a language barrier get in their way, either.

Peggy walks into the bar past midnight, when the revelries are well underway. She doesn’t stand out quite as much as she did the last time, draped in folds of dark green instead of lipstick-red, but she isn’t any less eye-catching. A small pocket of awed silence follows her every step, but she ignores it smoothly with only the hint of a smirk on the edge of her lips, and heads straight for the Commandos’ table. Their loud songs die out, just like they did the last time, and Peggy lets her smirk widen just a bit. Dugan leans over, turns his head halfway to whisper, “Rogers, look at your gal!”

His elbow meets empty air instead of a muscled ribcage, and his words dissipate unanswered into the night. He overbalances and stumbles; the crash of his bar stool is too loud in their little pocket of silence. The smirk drops from Peggy’s lips. Morita throws back the last of his drink and stands to get another round. 

Whatever vice drinking may be, at least it helps them all forget for one night.

* * *

Victory comes, eventually. The war that felt like it might never end, does. It’s a cold night in London when they gather to mark the occasion. The air is electric, overwarm despite the night chill, filled with ecstatic cries and waving flags. They sit at the center of the celebrations, a lone table ringed with seven chairs. Some men pat them enthusiastically on their backs as they walk by. A few recognize them and congratulate them by name. They smile and nod as prompted; this is a happy day. The war is over. They’ve won. All the work they put in, all the cold nights and muddy treks, all the sacrifices made and the wounds borne, it’s all paid off. They can go home now.

Except for the two that never did, and never will.

“To the Howling Commandos!” yells someone from a nearby table. The cheers erupt tenfold louder, dotting the air with bursts of applause like exploding grenades. They raise their glasses, clink them together, swallow a sip. “To the Howling Commandos,” echoes Jones, eyes fixed on the two glasses sitting on the table, still full. The bitterness on their tongues, they blame on cheap liquor; the wetness on their cheeks, they blame on sweat. It’s Victory Day, after all, and they should be celebrating.

“To the Captain,” murmurs Falsworth, and they drink to that, too. “And to his Sergeant.”

**Author's Note:**

> come find me at capgal.tumblr.com! (cross-posted)  
> As always, comments/feedback/kudos are greatly appreciated!! :)


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